The war was over.

For once, the great metal halls of New Iacon lay quiet, steeped in the low hum of idle systems and the distant sigh of ventilators. In the dim glow of the room, shapes rested like statues—silent, still, save for the slow rise and fall of one broad frame.

Megatron lay reclined against the berth wall, his massive form at rest, optics long shuttered. The sharp edges of his armor had softened in sleep, the eternal furrow of his brow eased for the first time in countless cycles. His chestplate moved rhythmically with deep, steady vents—warm and slow—casting a faint, almost comforting heat into the space between them.

Optimus Prime rested lightly against him, frame half-curled and still adjusting to this strange sense of quiet. His helm tipped forward, brushing the smooth slope of Megatron's chest, feeling the faint rumble of power within. The weight of exhaustion dragged at his limbs, heavy and reluctant, but safe—for once—in this strange, impossible moment.

Fingers—scarred, worn—loosened their faint hold against Megatron’s side, slackening as recharge gently began to creep over him. The dim light caught faint scrapes and weld lines along their armor, silent marks of history now forgotten in this stillness.

No words passed. No tension lingered. Only the soundless breath of two giants finally at rest.